Mirrors
by Sakon76
Summary: [G1] Love and hate are the opposite sides of one another.  Just like Prowl and Jazz. Written for the ProwlxJazz livejournal community's October challenge 'Masks' prompt.


Everyone knows there is one pair of Autobot twins. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are vicious melee warriors, whatever their personality flaws, and invaluable to the Autobot forces. They are also twins, a far, far rarer thing among Cybertronians than among their Terran allies. They are, in fact, believed to be the last surviving pair of transformer twins anywhere in the universe.

This is not quite correct.

Among Cybertronians, there are three types of brothers. There are brothers sparked, like the twins; brothers made, like gestalt teams; and brothers found, like any Autobots or Decepticons who are particularly close and would consider themselves what humans would term "brothers in arms." Everyone believes that Prowl, second in command of the Autobot forces, and Jazz, head of the Autobot special operations division, would fall into the third category if they considered themselves to be any sort of brothers at all.

One should never take popular opinion as gospel.

**Mirrors**  
by K. Stonham  
released 15th October 2007

The first thing they had seen when they came online was the sky, black and full of stars. The second, as they realized there was someone next to them, was each other's optics, the exact same shade of blue. They already had language programmed into them, so one smiled at the other. "Hey," he said.

"Hello," his brother replied a shade more cautiously. "Who are you?"

"Dunno," the first said, unconcerned, sitting up. "Who are you?"

"I... don't know either," the second said, deciding that sitting up sounded like a good idea and following suit.

Looking at them was like looking at mirrors. Both were painted in stark black and white, but their colors were reversed. One had a black helm; the other's was white. One's hands were pale; the other's dark. Their creator, after observing them for a minute, stepped forward, smiling, uncerimoniously dubbing them "the noisy one" and "the quiet one" until they found the names that they felt best suited themselves.

* * *

By the time the twins had found their names, a few orns later, they'd already decided they detested one another. The noisy one--now designated "Jazz"--found his brother cold and uncaring, incapable of keeping up with a social life or meeting his twin's emotional needs. The quiet one--now named "Prowl"--for his part found his brother loud and unpredictable, impatient and unable to use the good mind their creator and Primus had seen fit to bestow upon him. Their room had quickly gotten a line drawn down the center of it. 

A few more lunar cycles and the line had become a literal wall.

The only time their antagonism toward one another died down was when both were in recharge, Jazz sprawled across his berth, while on the other side of the wall Prowl lay calmly on his. Their elderly creator stood in the doorway some nights, watching his two sleeping sons, wondering what had gone wrong. He had asked a single spark of Vector Sigma and hoarded, treasured, and tended it so carefully for long vorns while he designed and built his son. Then one morning he had discovered that what had been one had become two, and while he had rejoiced at the kindness and glory of Primus, it had set his children's activation back vorns more, as he worked and toiled for the materials to build a second form worthy of the gift he had been granted.

Perhaps the way the spark had split had been unstable. Twins were so few, so rare, that there had been no one for him to consult when it had happened. Perhaps he had done something wrong. Perhaps it was his fault. He shuttered his optics in pain at the thought and turned away, making his careful way to his own berth.

* * *

Whatever the brothers' problems with one another, they never took out their anger and frustration on their creator, each gentle with him in their own way. They worked out an unspoken sharing of their time with him. Jazz would tell him stories of the mechs he'd seen and met, relay bits of music he'd heard, remind him that there was a vibrant, living world beyond his own door. Prowl would read the literature of foreign worlds to him, play games of strategy, and discuss mathematical and scientific theory. The brothers timed their visits so that they didn't even pass one another in the doorway. This, evidence of their ongoing feud, was the only thing that dimmed his enjoyment of their visits with him. 

The last time he saw them, however, they were together, kneeling on either side of his chair as he faded. Two pairs of identical blue optics looked up at him, his hands held in theirs. The pain in one set of optics was open for all to see, while the other set of optics were guarded, subdued. For one moment, they weren't fighting.

If only, he wished, they could stay like that forever. His kind, brilliant, good-sparked sons...

"Be good to each other," he told them, and went to join Primus.

* * *

Their truce lasted only long enough to see their creator properly recycled. It was a miracle, Prowl thought to himself, that it had even lasted that long. 

They went in silence back to the small domicile where they'd first lived with him, full of so many memories, so few of them concerning Jazz any good, and he finally couldn't stand it any more. "You wore him out," he accused lowly, meaning it. "He would have lived longer if you hadn't needed so much attention, forced him to keep up with you."

That caught his brother's attention. "At least he knew I gave a damn," Jazz returned heatedly. "I didn't try to box him up and label him and leave him to die."

"He was the only person who ever cared for me," Prowl retorted. "You were too wrapped up in yourself to see he needed help--"

"You've never cared for anyone but yourself in your entire life," shot Jazz. "Don't try to fake loving him, Prowl, you're not _capable_ of it."

That caught him cold, like a physical blow. "I loved him," Prowl said quietly, "as a son loves a creator. You're the one who doesn't care for anything beyond your own techno-butterfly existence."

Jazz studied him, expression contemptuous. "If that's what you think," he said, "then I don't think we have anything further to say to one another."

"No," said Prowl, "we don't."

* * *

The first thing Jazz felt when he saw his brother was tension, followed closely by a wild distrust. 

Vorns since they'd seen each other, having parted ways forever when their creator had died, and Prowl just _happened_ to join the Autobot forces? And end up in the officer ranks? He'd've laid credits that the slagging _logical_ glitch would have ended up with the Decepticons. He was too cold-sparked to possibly believe in the Autobot cause. He studied Prowl covertly. The changes time had wrought on him were minimal, but there... his face was a lighter gray than before, and the red chevron on his helm was new too. Bluestreak had one just like it, insignia of the university he'd studied at. Didn't red mean something like first in class?

Then Optimus himself was introducing them. But the Prime must have sensed the animosity between Jazz and Prowl because he hesitated. "Have the two of you... met before?" he asked.

Jazz waited for Prowl to answer.

"Not for a very long time," Prowl said eventually, coldly. He glanced at the Autobot commander. "It won't be a problem. Excuse me."

"Jazz?" Optimus asked quietly as Prowl walked away.

"He don't start nothin', I won't either," Jazz gave the commander his guarantee. "I'll work with him. Just don't expect me to like him, Prime."

Optimus gave a slow nod. "That's all I can ask, Jazz."

* * *

Even as he strove very carefully not to treat him differently than any other Autobot, Prowl had to admit that Jazz was good at his job. He'd even changed the frame design their creator had made them with in order to excel. He was sleeker now, faster, harder to catch. His door-wings were gone entirely. Bluestreak, Prowl mused, looked more like him than his own brother did now. And the traits that had made his brother so annoying--loud, brash and rash, friendly--made him an excellent spy, capable of befriending Decepticons, getting the information they needed, and getting out after planting a few explosive charges or slitting a few primary energon lines. 

(And the hypocrital glitch called _him_ cold-sparked? How Jazz could call himself an Autobot with that kind of mindset, Prowl could not logically comprehend.)

The very fact that they ended up as Optimus Prime's right- and left-hand mechs made Prowl shake his head in disbelief and wonder at Primus' sense of humor. Because no matter how he tried, he could no more like Jazz now than he had when they were sparklings. Jazz was everything he wasn't, and he was everything Jazz wasn't, and their loathing of one another was only suppressed by the necessities of the war. Once it was over, Prowl was sure, they would go their separate ways and never meet again.

He looked forward to that day.

Even on that first day on Earth, after over four million of the local solar orbits, when he helped Prime heave his lifeless brother's body onto Teletran-1's repair area, it was duty, nothing more.

They may have been brothers, but certainly they were not friends.

* * *

He envied the Lambo twins sometimes, he surely did. He looked at them and wondered what it would have been like to be sparked with a brother he liked, trusted, _loved_. He wondered what it would have been like to have a twin who gave a damn about anything but himself and his cold, mathematical perfection. All he'd ever wanted from Prowl, before he got old enough and wise enough to know he couldn't have it, was an indication that he mattered to his brother. 

His ice-cold brother didn't have that in him.

* * *

He envied the Lamborghini twins sometimes. He observed them and contemplated the vagaries of Primus in creating one pair of twins so complementary to one another, and another pair so opposite one another. He briefly entertained the illogical image of what he and his brother might have been like, if they hadn't been so diametrically opposed. He'd wished, as a sparkling, for a brother who would talk with him, who would spend time with him and let him know that his presence, that his very existence, mattered to him. 

Jazz didn't possess that capacity.

* * *

Prowl, with his battle computer capable of simultaneously calculating the velocity, trajectory, and projected impact of hundreds of weapons in a firefight situation, tended to usually require less repairs than certain other Autobots Ratchet could name. 

Not so this time.

The tactician was laid on his operating table more gently than he would have expected by the yellow and black hands of his two most frequent patients, and with just a cursory scan Ratchet could tell the damage was bad.

He did his damnedest, letting Wheeljack and Perceptor handle all other repairs, but in the end... there were some things only Primus himself could repair. And apparently He had decided it was time to call Prowl home.

* * *

Jazz listened in disbelief as Ratchet made his report to Prime and the officers first, before telling everyone else. 

The idea of a Prowl-shaped hole in the Ark's personnel... he hadn't expected the thought to hurt so much. They might have never gotten along, been at one another's throats their entire lives, in fact, but Jazz had never entertained the thought of killing Prowl. Or seeing Prowl killed. It would have been real easy to do, with his skill set, but Prowl was a constant, even if he'd hoped he was one on the far side of Cybertron where he'd never have to... see him... again...

Jazz's thoughts slowed, then ran out all together as he stopped listening to Ratchet.

No Prowl.

He wordlessly left the meeting and went to the medbay. Wheeljack was there, keeping an eye on the terminal patient. He looked up, but didn't say anything as Jazz leaned against the wall, studying Prowl's form.

What, he wondered, would he... would the Autobots do without a Prowl?

* * *

Ratchet returned, heavy-sparked, to the medbay, sending Wheeljack on his way. There was nothing Wheeljack could do. Nothing he could do, either, really, but he wanted a chance to apologize to Prowl for that. For not being good enough. 

"Wasn't really paying attention," Jazz's musical voice said quietly, startling Ratchet, "but... you said his core energy leaked, right?"

Ratchet nodded, spotting the saboteur leaning against the wall. "Yes."

"Seem to remember that happening to Sideswipe once," Jazz observed. "He just not lose as much as Prowl?"

"No, he was just as badly off," Ratchet said wearily. "He didn't have enough left, either, for it to sustain itself. With him, though, he had Sunstreaker to give him a transfusion."

"No one onboard compatible with Prowl?" Jazz asked, pushing off from the wall and walking over to Prowl's supine form.

Ratchet glared at him. "If it was that simple, I'd have volunteers lined up through the doors," he growled. "Core energy isn't like energon, Jazz. It's not transferable from one mech to the next! Each laser core's energy resonates differently and any interference kills the recipient. It only works for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker because they share a spark."

Jazz nodded slowly. "Gotcha," he murmured, looking at the downed tactician. "When he was brought on as part of this crew, I thought he might be a Decepticon, he was so cold," he murmured.

"Prowl's never been good at showing emotion," Ratchet told him.

Jazz laughed, but it was hollow. "I know that. Oh, man, do I know that." He was silent for a minute, then looked up into Ratchet's optics. "Ratch', do what you need to to rig up for a transfusion."

"I told you, core energy isn't--" Ratchet started spewing angrily, but was silenced by the hithertofore unthinkable sight of Jazz removing his visor. His optics met Ratchet's steadily.

"Ratchet," Jazz told him quietly, "do it."

He hadn't seen Jazz's optics since... since Prowl had joined them, actually. Jazz had started sporting his trademark accessory less than an orn afterward. He'd forgotten their shade of blue, the same color as Prowl's, the exact... same...

Ratchet forgot to cycle his intake valves as comprehension dawned over him.

* * *

It was a cold, dark, quiet place that he was dying in, and Prowl couldn't find it in himself to mind. It was how he had suspected it would be. As he had lived alone, so, when he died, would he die alone. 

It was logical, and so he was at peace with it.

_just what i'd expect of someone as cold as you_

The silence, suddenly, felt... broken.

_giving up? man, he'd be lecturing both of us right now, telling us we were better than this_

The thought of his creator twinged a spark of regret inside of him. He would have liked to have lived longer, to have read and studied more. His creator had always been so proud, delighting in his intellect and his hunger to learn.

_i didn't really mean what i said that day. we never did understand one another, did we, even when he wanted us to?_

He supposed his twin had a bit of that too. Jazz wasn't stupid; maybe if they'd tried harder they would have been able to connect over what they learned? They'd managed to work together well enough under Prime's command, forcing aside their differences for the greater good...

_if you don't come back, we'll never be able to make things right_ A pause. _slagging cowardly prick, running away, trying to take the easy way out. might as well have been a decepticon after all, leaving like this when everyone needs you_

The last vestige of his calm broke. "I'm not the one who can't commit to anything!" Prowl growled at his brother. "You can't settle down and concentrate and just do _one thing_ well, why should I listen to you?!"

_because you're a slagging idiot who doesn't even try to connect with people! you've got the whole ark sick because they think you're dying and you won't even try to come back because you don't care--_

"You're the one who doesn't care!" Prowl interrupted. "You go from mech to mech, project to project, with no thought for the long-term consequences of your actions! When in your life have you _ever_ cared enough to stick with something, Jazz?!"

_you don't get to be the best in my field by doing just one thing well, mister specializing insect_ his brother mocked.

"And when we have peace again, what will you do then?" Prowl demanded sarcastically.

_anything. the question is, prowl, what will _you _do?_

"Go back to studying," Prowl retorted.

_you can't spend your life in books_ Jazz said. _that's no kind of living, and not what he wanted for you_

"How would you know?"

Jazz was silent for a moment. _he told me to take care of you_ he finally answered.

Prowl was quiet, remembering the last thing their creator had ever said to them. "You think that was what he meant?" he finally asked.

_he knew what we were, that you were everything i wasn't, that i'm everything you're not. do you really think he meant anything else?_

If Jazz was right... going their own ways hadn't been the best way of fulfilling their creator's final wish. "Why do you care?" Prowl finally whispered to his techno-butterfly brother.

_why don't you?_ Jazz asked in reply.

Startled, Prowl looked up.

* * *

Bright blue bled into bright blue, swirling together as if they had never been apart. Ratchet watched the transfusion with steady eyes, wondering how he'd never realized that the core energies of Prime's second and the special ops officer resonated on the exact same wavelength. 

He'd known them both for vorns, and never thought, never guessed... they'd deliberately interacted with one another as little as possible, he thought. There had been no overt hostility between them, but it had never been a secret that they rubbed one another the wrong way. Given their radically different personalities, it hadn't surprised anyone.

When Sideswipe had needed a transfusion from his brother, it had changed things between them for a few days. They'd been closer together, not gotten into fights. It was, according to what Ratchet knew of twins, a common side effect to core energies being recalibrated to one another. He wondered what effect it would have on the black-and-whites. Obviously something had gone very wrong in the past for them to dislike one another to the point of keeping their relationship secret.

Feeling somehow reluctant, he nonetheless cut off the transfer when Prowl's readings showed that he'd stabilized. He cleaned his equipment and put it away, then stood looking at the offline brothers for just a few astrominutes before sighing and going to report to Prime.

* * *

Optimus blinked. "Jazz and Prowl...?" he asked his Chief Medical Officer. 

Ratchet nodded. "They never told you either, I take it."

Optimus shook his head. "No. I knew they'd been acquainted before, but... twins?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are going to be annoyed at the loss of their unique status," said Ratchet, and Optimus had to chuckle in agreement. Then he sobered again.

"Prowl will be all right?"

Ratchet shrugged a little, unconcerned. "The transfusion is already completed. They're both resting and should be fit to resume duties in the morning, though I recommend keeping Prowl, at least, off the battlefield for a few weeks to give his core time to strengthen again."

Optimus nodded, making a mental note. "This secret... in some ways it changes everything," he said quietly.

"Prime?" Ratchet inquired.

"We've known them both for how long?" Optimus asked. "And yet we never knew who they really were."

"You think we'll know them better now?" Ratchet asked.

"Well, Jazz removed at least one of their masks to save Prowl," Optimus mused. "Though," he granted, "given Jazz's specialty, it's likely that no one but Prowl will ever know all of him."

Seeming thoughtful, Ratchet nodded. "Do you want to disseminate the news that Jazz saved Prowl's life, or shall I?" he asked.

Optimus' optics crinkled up in amusement. "Together?" he inquired. "I think we'd both rather like to see certain reactions."

Ratchet grinned. "Oh, indeed," he concurred.

* * *

The first thing they saw when they came online was the medbay ceiling, brushed chrome with the occasional scorch mark. The second, as they realized there was someone next to them, was each other's optics, the exact same shade of blue. Everything else hurt, but their vocal capacitors were both undamaged. Jazz smiled at Prowl. "Hey," he said. 

"Hello," Prowl replied a shade more cautiously. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Jazz said, unconcerned, sitting up. "How are you?"

"I'm... fine," Prowl said, deciding that sitting up sounded like a good idea and following suit.

* * *

"Ratchet knows about us," Jazz said, picking up his visor from the table where it lay. He put it back on, feeling more comfortable once it was back in place. "I told him. He wouldn't've done a core energy transfusion otherwise." 

"So then Prime knows too," Prowl calculated out.

"And from there, it's a short step to everybody," Jazz agreed. "Sorry."

Prowl gave a minimalist shrug. "Why did you do that?" he asked, confusion written across his face in elegant glyphs. "You hate me."

Jazz felt his expression set in stone. "You're an Autobot, and an officer, and we need you," he told his brother. He could still feel the touch of Prowl's core mingling with his, and Prowl felt like he needed to ask? "Any of those would've been enough."

"I see," Prowl said neutrally.

"You're my brother," Jazz said wearily, tired of rejection. "Whether you act it or not."

"_I_ don't act it?" Prowl demanded. "You were the one who was never interested in being my brother."

"You were never interested in anything but your books," Jazz shot back.

Prowl opened his mouth to respond, then bit back whatever logical argument had come to him. "...He wouldn't want us still fighting," he said quietly.

Which took Jazz aback too. "Yeah," his twin agreed. "Guess not."

* * *

"It's... not possible to erase everything," Prowl said, remembering the reassuring blue light of Jazz surrounding him, holding him up until he felt strong enough again. His brother had always been better at everything than he had, more adaptable and as much as he'd been lonely, that had made him a little jealous. How could either of them have seriously believed the other might have been a Decepticon? They were the same spark. It hurt, the way they treated one another. It hurt even more than his repaired laser core. "But... maybe we can try to get along better? I do care, Jazz, even if I don't always show it the way you think I should." 

"I always envied Sunny and Sides the way they had each other," Jazz replied quietly. "I wished we could've been like them. I just... I care about so many things, Prowl. Doesn't mean you're not on the list. High on the list," he muttered gracelessly.

"Right. So we try again?" Prowl asked into the empty medbay.

Jazz nodded. "You're still a cold prick, though," he said after a minute.

"You're still a thoughtless socialite," Prowl returned.

The two looked at each other, for once in perfect understanding of what they really meant.

* * *

There was dead silence in the Rec Room. 

"I'm sorry, Prime, I must have misheard you," Bumblebee said finally. "Did you just say Jazz and Prowl are _twins_?"

Solemnly, both Optimus Prime and Ratchet nodded as one.

"They don't even _like_ each other," Huffer whined, breaking the silence.

"Right, gentlemechs," Smokescreen suddenly said, "bets on the matter of Jazz versus Prowl are closed and payment is due."

As the crowd of Autobots, some still in silent shock, others murmuring to one another in disbelief, descended upon their local bookie en masse, Sideswipe turned to his twin.

"You know," he commented, "that explains a lot more than it doesn't."

"For once, Sides," Sunstreaker agreed with a nod, "you are absolutely right."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_Right. So, over at the ProwlxJazz community on livejournal, there is an October challenge to write five fanfics on a certain set of themes. For whatever reason, everyone including me glommed onto theme #3, "Masks", first. However, this story ends up slightly torquing the theme of the comm, since it's not slash. It is, however, crack that started with the thought "You know, they're both black and white..." and ended up combining with a few nascent thoughts about Cybertronian siblings which I lay mostly at the feet of Epona Harper's wonderful story "Brother". This piece ended up a bit longer than I'd planned, but still shorter than the multi-chapter arc it initially pompously informed me it was going to be. So, one theme down, four to go!_


End file.
